It broke the dog’s leg
when you were reversing for me on the slope at home.
it sits for scrap now
on the tow truck.
Majestic as a king
on his lectica
the ratchets click
the blue straps tighten
before the final journey
out the gates
through which it once
purchased from our savings
when we were told
we were having twins.
Ground-in chocolate, mud, crumbs
infant seats all straps and buckles
the roof rack bars were your horizontal
handles when you’d stand
and, like the Hulk, begin to shake
us when you’d come to say goodbye.
And the strapped-in children would
shout as if they were about to be tipped
out, and when you stopped, their laughter
turned to Do it again! Go on, do it again!
I once knew a woman who drove a convertible:
metallic navy, white leather interior, gloss veneer
fabric, reclining roof.
A thing of vehicular beauty.
When she sold it she never wrote a poem.